He’s got his shoulders thrown back like he’s been congratulated about something that he didn’t do.

Her forehead is pressed forward as if she’s looking into life through a plate glass window.

That man is little and knows it, he’s worried that he’s going to get cheated out of something if he doesn’t watch out.

The young girl’s got a smile bigger than her face, she just lights up everything around her.

That’s the stream — an endless wash of impressions that come in bits and pieces, instantaneous moments of insight that are disjointed and out of context. They are incredibly powerful, and they make you want more.

What’s funny is how many times you get to talking with someone and all of those bright parts of who they are go away. They are pieces of packing cartons, with bright surfaces and standard cardboard underneath.

The trick to writing well is to take the pieces of the stream that sing, knit them together and fight the impulse of people to be boring and mundane when the light shines on them.